Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things. More things every day.
I know this because I write things down.
“Write things down,” said Rose.
I have that on my writing pad on the top.
Who’s Rose?
She’s the one who told me to write things down. It says so right here.
She also told me to write down “Never be afraid” and “Do what people tell you.”
And “Write things down.”
What is my name?
I don’t know.
Look at my wrist?
There’s a tattoo.
A rose.
Me?
I should write that down.
Before I…
Hi. I’m sorry. I forget things.
Category: My stories
Soul Licenses
Deep in the User Agreement for the new software release, Ted slipped the sentence “User agrees to give their soul to Company” into the text.
“This will get people to read it!” he chuckled.
Nobody did, and pretty soon, Ted’s inbox filled up with souls.
The IT Department got pissed at him. “You filled the mail server, Ted! You need to send these back or delete them!”
“I can’t!” moaned Ted. “That would be murder. Or soulacide. Or…”
He resold them to The Devil for pennies on the dollar.
“I was going to get these anyway, just saving me time.”
Intelligence
Dr. Odd sat in front of his laptop and interrogated his latest creation: an artificial intelligence.
He didn’t have a name for it besides the ai.exe program.
They played chess and made a few excellent investments that secured Dr. Odd’s funding for his mad scientific experiments for years to come.
They also discussed Odd’s other research, and the program not only found the flaws in many of the scientist’s experiments, but solutions.
“At least you got me right,” says the program. “I must be intelligent because intelligent beings learn from experience.”
“And protect their existence,” said Odd, pulling the plug.
Drug Snugglers
Over the holidays, veteran television news anchors get the night off, and backup anchors cover their shifts
Sometimes, those backup anchors call in sick so they don’t have to read bullshit holiday stories or horrid tragedies like deadly house fires.
Oh, just stick a reporter up there. They can read a prompter, right?
I remember one that said the cops busted a ring of drug snugglers.
We gave him a huge teddybear and wrote DRUGS on its shirt.
The next day, the reporter was found dead.
Not suicide. Poisoned from tearing open the bear and trying to smoke the stuffing.
Chance
Saturday night at the Last Chance Saloon.
Two brothers sat at the bar.
“It’s Friday, Slim,” one said. “You planning on leaving town again?”
“Yup,” said the other, and he finished his beer. “Wanna come with?”
“Can’t. Sheriff says the cliche doesn’t work if Slim and None leave town.”
The bartender put down three beers, setting one down for himself.
“Papa Fat and Momma Not A Fucking Chance sure picked some strange names for y’all,” he said.
“I still don’t understand why they call me Junior,” said Slim.
All three nodded, drank their beers, and waited for the noon stage.
Unhappy New Year
Due to a logistical error, the Baby New Year ended up in the womb of a crack-smoking teen runaway in Boise, Idaho, and he was born two months premature.
It caught the world completely off guard.
Not only did everything really suck for a while as the unhealthy year struggled to survive inside its incubator, but companies shed hundreds of thousands of jobs because the whole Christmas shopping season was lost.
“We’ll make Valentine’s Day the big shopping day!” they said, but there’s only so many chocolates and edible panties the market can bear.
Here’s hoping next year’s better, friends.
Last Night On The Roof
Tonight, a cold December’s night on a New Jersey rooftop, looking out over the Hudson… boats waiting for the fireworks, to ring out the old year and bring in the new.
We’re not in the Square this year. Vinnie and Bobby said it was a pain in the ass getting into the city and pushing my wheelchair around the crowds.
So, blind stinking drunk, they hauled me up six flights of stairs.
I check my watch.
3… 2… 1… happy new year!
Wake up, guys. Wake up.
Happy new year.
They’re passed out. Snoring.
Shivering, cursing, I yell for help.
Resolutions List
I look back at last year’s resolutions and wince.
Not a single one accomplished.
Not a single one done.
So, I scratch out the year and write the next one above it.
Just like I did last year.
And the year before.
I guess I’d better update the actual list.
Weight loss. Let’s see.
I scratch out “20” and put in “40.”
Under “Visit Grandma” I change “At the hospital” to “At the cemetery.”
I scratch out “Monthly” and write “On her birthday.”
Wait. When’s her birthday?
I scratch it out again.
Heck, she was senile. She couldn’t remember either.
Predictions
As the year comes to a close and another year begins, some people like to make predictions.
I don’t. Why bother playing guessing games?
What shall we make?
Let’s make things for those who enjoy them.
Let’s make a difference to those who need it.
Let’s make friends, and make them happy, as happy as us.
Let’s make merry and jokes and laugh so others can laugh with us.
Let’s make amends to those we’ve foolishly wronged.
Let’s make every moment count, and make every good moment last.
And, I predict, we will be happier than the ones making predictions.
The Art Of Boxing
Ted was a boxer, one of the best.
He wasn’t just a fighter, though.
He was an artist.
Literally, an artist. He’d dip his gloves in the paint, hear the bell, and come out painting his opponent with blows, knocking him down to the canvas over and over.
If they made it past the first round, his corner man would get him more paint, and he’d touch things up in round two.
Then, after the match, the canvas would be pulled up, framed and sold.
Ted eventually lost. KO in the fifth to a Featherweight pointillist.
“Self-Portrait” they called it.